


Black Balloon

by BuffyRowan



Series: Neighboring Solitudes [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Reichenbach, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuffyRowan/pseuds/BuffyRowan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson writes out his thoughts after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Balloon

**Author's Note:**

> I do bend the cannon here, just a tiny bit. While in cannon John needs a roommate because of his gambling, here I state that he was able to afford accomodations without a roommate. And I believe that this doesn't break things, since it is entirely possible Watson might have been able to find more modest rooms within his budget.
> 
> Parts in italics are lyrics from The GooGoo Dolls "Black Balloon"

_Baby's black balloon makes her fly_  
_I almost fell into that hole in your life_

Surprisingly, it was Holmes' utter distain for emotion, his cynical view of people and his acerbic wit that I enjoyed most. For all my admonishments about his disregard for polite niceties or his occasional disregard for the law or personal safety, I envied his boldness and freedom. I care too much for others' opinions of me to be so honest, but when I was with Holmes, it didn't matter. He would voice those truths for the both of us.

_And you're not thinking about tomorrow_  
_'cause you were the same as me_  
_but on your knees_

Had I truly wished, I could have found rooms on my own, without need of a roommate. But I put it about that my purse was a bit slim because I _needed_ to have that bit of human contact. India, even  before I was wounded and took ill, had struck me very deeply. Some of the horrors I saw there as a doctor still haunt my nights. Holmes, I know, was in the opposite situation. He had no wish to gain a roommate, but neither had he the funds to remain alone at 221 B Baker Street.

_a thousand other boys could never reach you_  
_how could I have been the one_

I've never been entirely sure why he became friends with me. As far as I can tell, I am one of a _very_ few who was allowed anywhere close to him, but for far less reason. I am no genius, no expert beyond compare in my field. Yet he allowed me to be his Boswell. More tellingly, he took the time to explain his methods and his logic to me, tutoring me in the art and science of detecting. He even introduced me to his brother, a singular honor.

_I saw the world spin beneath you_  
_and scatter like ice from the spoon_  
_that was your womb_

No one who met Holmes was quite the same, after. Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson could not help but change, seeing the effectiveness of his methods. Those whom Holmes met over the course of his cases were not as affected, of course. But the way he would discern their secrets, almost as if he were reading their minds and his matter-of-fact recitations of the evidence that revealed those secrets made those people look at their lives anew. A coin turned watch fob, the wear of the velvet of their glove, such little details of their daily lives became, for a moment, a tiny wonder.

_Comin' down the world turned over_  
_and angels fall without you there_

It feels strange, to think that there will be no more need to soothe the wounded pride of Scotland Yard, or to placate those offended by my friend or his pursuit of truth. Holmes lies at the bottom of that damnable gorge, while civilization and science go on standing with barely a ripple to mark his departure.

_and I go on as you get colder_  
_or are you someone's prayer_

I cannot even say that my own daily routines have been greatly impacted by his loss. Since my marriage, my involvement with his work had been much curtailed. That is to say, while Holmes had only to telegraph or visit and ask my assistance, that's not quite the same as being involved from the beginning.

Perhaps it was a blessing in a disguise worthy of Holmes, himself, that Mary's illness followed so closely upon the heels of my return from our final adventure. Caring for her those months offered me a much-needed distraction from my grief at Holmes' passing. The excuse her illness and passing gave me to avoid social engagements was also most welcome, for I found myself examining my memory of Homes most thoroughly.

Difficult though I have found it to reconcile with my notions about much of my life, I have come to the conclusion that my regard for my friend was and is greater than mere friendship. I believe I love him, in a manner considered both immoral and illegal by society.

_You know the lies they always told you_  
_and the love you never knew_

I will not lie and say I am ashamed by what I have discovered about myself. Indeed, recognizing and reconciling with these feelings has left me with a sense of peace I have found lacking since I left Baker Street to begin my marriage. I do not believe that I loved Mary any less than I loved Sherlock, only differently.

No, the reason I hid my love even from myself was not shame, it was more a practicality. Sherlock did not trust love, and often scoffed at its very existence. From what little I have gleaned about his childhood, I would venture a guess that he saw almost nothing of the emotion as a child, and by the time he attended boarding school, had in his behavior and knowledge become so far separated from his contemporaries that even love's lesser incarnation of deep friendship was nearly unknown to him.

_what's the things they never showed you_  
_that swallowed the light from the sun_  
_inside your room_

This lack in his encyclopedic knowledge would most likely have prevented Sherlock from comprehending, much less returning, my feelings. Additionally, any expression of such an emotion on my part might even have irrevocably damaged our friendship. Therefore, to protect my relationship with him, I did not even acknowledge that such feelings on my part existed to be recognized.

_Comin' down the world turned over_  
_and angels fall without you there_  
_and I go on as you get colder_  
_or are you someone's prayer_

Sherlock was not a man with faith in anything but science, but I pray that he's in heaven now. I pray that there is an afterlife, and that Sherlock is there, arguing philosophy with Aristotle and Plato. Because if there is, and he is, someday I will be reunited with him. Until then, I simply keep moving on with my life and my medical practice.

_and there's no time left for losin'_  
_when you stand they fall_

I have delayed my editor and readers with more of Sherlock's cases before we left for the continent. I simply cannot write that case out for publication.

Not yet.

_Comin' down the world turned over_  
_and angels fall without you there_  
_and I go on as you get colder_

I'm not even certain what prompted me to write tonight. I can never publish the truth about my friendship with Sherlock, in fact I'm not certain I dare keep these pages I've written.

_all because I'm_  
_comin' down the years turn over_  
_and angels fall without you there_  
_and I'll go and lead you home and_

Writing this has decided me, though. Once I finish, I shall burn these pages. After that, I shall set the events of our final adventure together to paper, to craft my own monument to my friend's life.

_all because I'm_  
all because I'm  
and I'll become  
what you became to me

Once the final adventure is published, I will turn my attention firmly to my medical practice. I will continue to help Scotland Yard when consulted, and I will bide my time until I may find out for myself if Sherlock waits on the other side, and if my regard for him might ever be returned.


End file.
